Woman Flu Quotes

It’s no secret to any woman that men turn into big babies when they are sick. Jake got the flu last year, and Rose almost strangled him before it was over. A woman can work twelve hours with PMS and a heavy flow and not complain; men can stub their toe and be bedbound for a month.

That woman could spread gossip faster than the flu in a whorehouse.

He had lived in an apartment with books touching the ceilings, and rugs thick enough to hide dice; then in a room and a half with dirt floors; on forest floors, under unconcerned stars; under the floorboards of a Christian who, half a world and three-quarters of a century away, would have a tree planted to commemorate his righteousness; in a hole for so many days his knees would never wholly unbend; among Gypsies and partisans and half-decent Poles; in transit, refugee, and displaced persons camps; on a boat with a bottle with a boat that an insomniac agnostic had miraculously constructed inside it; on the other side of an ocean he would never wholly cross; above half a dozen grocery stores he killed himself fixing up and selling for small profits; beside a woman who rechecked the locks until she broke them, and died of old age at forty-two without a syllable of praise in her throat but the cells of her murdered mother still dividing in her brain; and finally, for the last quarter century, in a snow-globe-quiet Silver Spring split-level: ten pounds of Roman Vishniac bleaching on the coffee table; Enemies, A Love Story demagnetizing in the world’s last functional VCR; egg salad becoming bird flu in a refrigerator mummified with photographs of gorgeous, genius, tumorless great-grandchildren.

DOCTOR AIN WAS recognized on the Omaha-Chicago flight. A biologist colleague from Pasadena came out of the toilet and saw Ain in an aisle seat. Five years before, this man had been jealous of Ain's huge grants. Now he nodded coldly and was surprised at the intensity of Ain's response. He almost turned back to speak, but he felt too tired; like nearly everyone, he was fighting the flu. The stewardess handing out coats after they landed remembered Ain too: A tall thin nondescript man with rusty hair. He held up the line staring at her; since he already had his raincoat with him she decided it was some kooky kind of pass and waved him on. She saw Ain shamble off into the airport smog, apparently alone. Despite the big Civil Defense signs, O'Hare was late getting underground. No one noticed the woman. - 'The Last Flight of Doctor Ain

Yeah, personally I hate my period and think it’s annoying and gross, but it’s not more gross than anything else that comes out of a human body. It’s not more gross than feces, urine, pus, bile, vomit, or the grossest bodily fluid of them all—in my mother’s professional opinion—phlegm. And yet we are not horrified every time we go to the bathroom. We do not stigmatize people with stomach flu. The active ingredient in period stigma is misogyny. This

Did you recently take a long flight?” I told her we’d flown from Oklahoma to Los Angeles, then from Los Angeles to Sydney. “Did you sleep a lot of that time?” she continued. “Pretty much the entire time,” I answered. My concern grew. Could it be something terrible and communicable? TB, perhaps? The flu? A terrible strain of airborne malaria? “What’s wrong, Doctor? Give it to me straight; I can take it.” “I believe what you have,” she said, “is an inner ear disturbance--most likely brought on by the long flight and the sleep.” An inner ear disturbance? How boring. How embarrassing. “What would sleeping a lot have to do with it?” I asked. As the daughter of a physician, I needed a little more data. She explained that since I hadn’t been awake much during the flight, I hadn’t yawned or naturally taken other steps to alleviate the ear popping that comes from a change in cabin pressure, and that my ears simply filled with fluid and were causing this current attack of vertigo. Fabulous, I thought. I’m a complete wimp. It was a real high point. “Is there anything she can do to make it better?” Marlboro Man asked, looking for a concrete solution. The doctor prescribed some decongestant and some antinausea medication, and I crawled out of her office in shame.

We do not stigmatize people with stomach flu. The active ingredient in period stigma is misogyny.

As soon as he leaves, I make the executive decision that given the circumstances, there will be no school or work today. First I call O’Callaghan and give him some bullshit excuse, but I need something legitimate for school in case I need to stretch it out for a while. I call the attendance office and lower my voice two octaves, thickening my New England accent to play Dad. I go with the first thing that pops in my head. I tell the woman that my son, Hank, is very ill. It could be flu, but there’s a possibility it could be encephalitis. The woman sounds shocked and concerned, so I know I’ve picked a good excuse. When I hang up, Peyton starts cracking up. “What? What’s so funny?” “Encephalitis is brain inflammation.” “Shit, I overdid it. I meant bronchitis. All I know is, there’s no way I can deal with school today.

if we use electrodes to study its oddly intelligent brain, we can replicate a pack of cloned genius dogs to do our bidding.” Everyone in the room smiled along with their leader. They followed his gaze to the TV monitor, now showing a photo of Wolfe with his arm around a young woman, and talking to a smiling black couple, while the dog sat at their feet. If any of those people happened to witness Jake Wolfe’s murder, they’d be killed too. He turned to Gisela and demanded, “Is the laboratory completion on schedule?” “Yes, it’s ready now, awaiting the scientists.” She tapped the remote and played a video. Attached to the mansion, in what appeared to be a five-car garage, a secret laboratory had been prepared for two epidemiologists Belken intended to kidnap. They would be forced to mutate the 1918 influenza pathogen into an even deadlier strain to be used as an aerosolized microbe weapon sprayed from ships or planes onto targeted cities. Their other task, equally important, would be to develop a new flu shot to immunize against the threat. There were murmurs of approval around the table. Belken nodded, hearing their flattering remarks. “Any report on our team kidnapping the targets?

Yeah, personally I hate my period and think it’s annoying and gross, but it’s not more gross than anything else that comes out of a human body. It’s not more gross than feces, urine, pus, bile, vomit, or the grossest bodily fluid of them all—in my mother’s professional opinion—phlegm. And yet we are not horrified every time we go to the bathroom. We do not stigmatize people with stomach flu. The active ingredient in period stigma is misogyny

Peterson’s Golden Retriever. Before the Wolf Flu, it had been a show dog. The dog’s coat was a deep orange, highlighted with golden, metallic, shiny waves. After the Wolf Flu, Asa had mistaken the dog for a coyote. The creature had somehow lost all of its hair—Asa suspected that some cruel kid might have burned it off, or perhaps the dog had succumbed to a disease. The dog’s skin was grey and ashy. It had grown skinny and it had lost its left eye. Once Asa had seen the post-Wolf Flu dog trotting through the neighborhood with something bloody in its mouth—about a dozen foot-long strands of hair had been hanging from the animal’s closed jaws. To Asa it had looked like some woman’s hair.

AS A CHILD I developed a terrible fear of being anorexic. This was brought on by an article I had read in a teen magazine, which was accompanied by some upsetting images of emaciated girls with hollow eyes and folded hands. Anorexia sounded horrible: you were hungry and sad and bony, and yet every time you looked in the mirror at your eighty-pound frame, you saw a fat girl looking back at you. If you took it too far, you had to go to a hospital, away from your parents. The article described anorexia as an epidemic spreading across the nation, like the flu or the E. coli you could get from eating a Jack in the Box hamburger. So I sat at the kitchen counter, eating my dinner and hoping I wasn’t next. Over and over, my mother tried to explain that you didn’t just become anorexic overnight.

After her [Grandma's] death in the great flu epidemic of 1918, Grandpa had remarried a woman remembered without warmth by everyone in the family.

Smiling is infectious, you catch it like the flu, when someone smiled at me today, I started smiling too. I passed around the corner and someone saw my grin. When he smiled, I realized, I’d passed it on to him. I thought about that smile, then I realized its worth. A single smile, just like mine could travel round the earth. So, if you feel a smile begin, don’t leave it undetected. Let’s start an epidemic quick, and get the world infected”! Spike Milligan

knows exactly how serious this threat could be. Nevertheless, we cannot afford to take a chance with the health of our nation.” With that preamble, Ford announced that he was asking Congress to appropriate $135 million “for the production of sufficient vaccine to inoculate every man, woman, and child in the United States,” for a disease that no one could even prove to exist.

London returns in damp, fragmented flurries when I should be doing something else. A scrap of song, a pink scarf, and I’m back to curries and pub food, long, wet walks without a map, bouts of bronchitis, a case of the flu, my halfhearted studies, and brooding thoughts and scanning faces in every bar for you. Those months come down to moments or small plots, like the bum on the Tube, enraged that no one spoke, who raved and spat, the whole car thick with dread, only to ask, won’t someone tell a joke? and this mouse of a woman offered, What’s big and red and sits in the corner? A naughty bus. Not funny, I know. But neither’s the story of us.

Perhaps, in some innocent encounter in China between a child and a bird, a new killer flu is on its way. Or perhaps, even now, a young man or a young woman has become infected with two different strains of flu viruses. They are mixing together in the person’s lungs, their genes reassorting. Emerging from that witches’ brew is a new virus, a chimera, that, like the 1918 flu virus, is perfectly suited for destruction.

Perhaps, in some innocent encounter in China between a child and a bird, a new killer flu is on its way. Or perhaps, even now, a young man or a young woman has become infected with two different strains of flu viruses. They are mixing together in the person’s lungs, their genes reassorting. Emerging from that witches’ brew is a new virus, a chimera, that, like the 1918 flu virus, is perfectly suited for destruction. Perhaps, as we grow almost smug about influenza, that most quotidian of infections, a new plague is now gathering deadly force. Except this time we stand armed with a better understanding of the past to better survive the next pandemic.